


Mardi Gras, 1946

by brightblackholes



Category: Band of Brothers, The Pacific (TV)
Genre: Post-War, other relationships are ambiguously implied if you wanna see it that way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2019-02-23 21:17:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13198731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brightblackholes/pseuds/brightblackholes
Summary: On Mardi Gras of 1946, Eugene Roe hears the sound of an injured man and goes to investigate.  He was a medic, after all.





	Mardi Gras, 1946

**Author's Note:**

> I just wanted to write something with Eugene Roe and Snafu, because I love them. That's it.

Eugene weaved in and out of the crowd, stepping around laughing groups and over people passed out against buildings, searching of a piece of space that wasn’t so suffocating. He didn’t know why he had let himself be convinced that this might be a good idea. Mardi Gras was wild at best, especially with the war over. In New Orleans, it was out of control.

He had traveled with some of his coworkers, because he knew that he had been isolating himself more than before the war. The celebration had been fun, but as it got later and later, Eugene felt more and more drained. He’d bid his coworkers goodnight and started back towards the rooms they were renting.

Finally, Eugene got far enough away from the crowd that the noise dimmed to a distant hum, with only a few stragglers passing him every so often.

Most of the Easy men had stopped being draining to be around while they were stationed in the forest by Bastogne. Maybe it was because everyone was so tired anyway, but Eugene felt his best surrounded by the men or holed up with Babe and Spina. Going from feeling so comfortable around so many people to this had been an adjustment, but he was managing. It’s what he had always done best.

Eugene continued to walk, letting the noise and lights of the celebration fade behind him even furthur. The shadows around the buildings grew longer, but he wasn’t worried. It took a lot to scare him now. He may not have carried a gun with the paratroopers, but he had gone through the same training that Easy had at Toccoa. He had seen the same horrors, and could defend himself against them. It would take more than a New Orleans boogie man to make his heart speed up.

He wasn’t stupid, either. He had his ears open, so he heard the clattering and smashing of glass followed by a hissed _“shit”_ coming from the mouth of an alley a few steps ahead. He had been a medic. He knew what a man in pain sounded like.

“Hello?” he called before he could even think to stop himself. It was more than instinct to help a man in pain: it was involuntary. It was ingrained deeper than his bones, down into his very soul. He peered into the alley, only being able to see a dark outline and two bright eyes in the shadows. “Are you hurt?”

“Jus’ a cut,” the man said, stepping into the light and holding out his arm for Eugene to see. Blood dripped past his fingertips because of how his arm was angled, but the cut didn’t seem too deep. Long, but not deep. Still, it would have to be bandaged immediately. Eugene saw the broken neck of a bottle in his other hand and wondered if he should try to clean it, too.

“Can I take a look at that?” he asked. The man smiled lazily. His eyes were slightly glazed with alcohol, but not enough to be completely drunk.

“Shore,” he drawled in an accent thicker than Eugene’s. “You a doctor or somethin’?”

“No,” he said, taking the man’s arm and a handkerchief out of his pocket. “I was a medic in the war.”

“A _medic_ ,” the man said. “In the Pacific, we called ‘em corpsmen.”

“What branch were you?” he asked. The man grinned again, his teeth glinting with the light of a nearby street lamp.

“Marines. What were you?”

“Paratroopers. Part of the army.” Eugene finished wiping up the excess blood and looked at the piece of glass that had managed to stick itself into the man’s arm. It wasn’t in anything important, so Eugene would be able to pull it out with little problem as long as the man was distracted.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Shelton, but everyone over there called me Snafu-- _ow_! What the fuck?” he snapped.

“Glass,” Eugene replied, holding up the small shard. “Wouldn’t be surprised if there’s some in your feet, too.” The man shrugged.

“They’ve been through worse,” he said. Eugene hummed and pulled out his other handkerchief to help tie up the makeshift bandage. The cut didn’t need any sort of stitches, thank goodness.

“What’s your name, medic man?” Shelton asked, watching Eugene’s hands and holding the first handkerchief against he wound when he asked.

“Eugene,” he replied. Shelton stiffened. Not much, but enough for someone like him to notice.

“Eugene,” Shelton breathed, and he made the name sound like it was something precious. “I knew a Eugene once. Best man I ever met. Saved my life.”

“I knew a few men like that,” Eugene said, thinking of all the letters he had sitting on his bedside table, waiting for replies.

“Course, Gene could be a lil’ shit, too. But once he got to the war, he kept me fighting.”

Eugene glanced up at Shelton. He had a faraway look in his eyes, like the horize held a memory he longed to revisit.

“What happened to him?” Eugene asked. Shelton blinked and brought his focus back to the medic.

“Went home,” he shrugged. “Left him sleepin’ on the train.”

“No goodbye?” Eugene asked. Shelton shook his head.

“Ain't no way to say bye to a man like that.”

Eugene thought about how his throat closed when facing Major Winters for the last time, and Babe’s face full of pure joy when the United States finally came into view but the unreadable emotion in his eyes when he looked at him. Eugene thought he might understand.

“You keep in contact?” he asked. Shelton snorted and and shook his head.

“Boy’s got a rich-family life in ‘Bama. He don’t want a reminder of the war writin’ him letters from the slums of New Orleans.”

Eugene hummed and finished the bandage.

“He probably doesn’t have anyone understanding him in Alabama like you would,” he said. Shelton snorted.

“His best friend was in the Pacific. Went home right after Gene got there, but he understands enough.” Shelton peered at him. In the shadows of the mouth of the alley, his eyes glinted. He reminded Eugene of boogiemen his grandmere used to say would try to lure him out to the bayou and never give him back.

“What about you, medic man?” he asked. “You write your boys?”

Eugene thought again about the letters on his bedside table and the number of times he sat in front of a blank sheet of paper with nothing to say. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to speak to them, because he did, but what was he supposed to tell them?

“Haven’t found the words yet,” he mumbled eventually.

“Ah,” Shelton sighed knowingly. “You’re no better than me, boo.”

“Never said I was,” Eugene responded, “but at least I didn’t leave any of them sleeping on the train with no goodbye.”

Shelton stared at him, and for a second Eugene thought he was going to attack. Then, he laughed too loud for this dark part of the street, head thrown back and chest heaving.

“Feisty,” he said when he had his breath back. “I like you, medic man. You wanna spend some time with ol’ Snafu?”

Eugene didn’t feel adverse to company anymore, but Shelton’s tone gave him pause. Neither of them would be satisfied with what he suggested.

“I’m going to say no tonight”

Shelton shrugged and grinned.

“Too bad. Could’ve been a good time.” He took a breath and moved past Eugene to walk into the night. “Stay safe out there, medic man.”

“You too. And Shelton?” He stopped, turning back. “Write your Eugene. He’ll like hearin’ from you.” Shelton snorted.

“Take your own advice and write your boys,” he said, and then he was gone.

When Eugene got back to the small room he was staying in that night, he got out paper and a pen and began to write.

_Dear Babe..._

**Author's Note:**

> You can reblog the story on Tumblr [here](https://band-of-bros.tumblr.com/post/169096440035/just-something-i-wrote-about-our-two-cajun-boys)


End file.
